


A Room in the Heart of London

by supersalad



Category: The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Living Together, M/M, Victorian, so cheesy the mice could eat it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-18 16:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21279683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersalad/pseuds/supersalad
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, but after Bunsen and Beaker's failed attempt at collecting a charity donation from Scrooge, Beaker isn't feeling very festive.
Relationships: Beaker/Dr. Bunsen Honeydew
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	A Room in the Heart of London

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm obsessed with Beaker [appearing to flip off Scrooge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvZPm3lqaPs) (I know he's probably not, but it's my headcanon anyway). And because the scene with the scarf at the end hits me in the feels every time. Also, the title is playing off [Bunsen and Beaker's song](https://muppet.fandom.com/wiki/Room_in_Your_Heart) that was cut from the movie.

In the middle of London, above the small apothecary shop they ran, was the even smaller flat that Bunsen and Beaker called home. It wasn't much, but it was a place to hang their top hats after long days of working downstairs and volunteering for the Order of Victoria Charity Foundation. And it was a quiet place, tucked away from nosy neighbors who might have suspicions about two bachelors so closely sharing every part of their lives together.

By the time they entered on Christmas Eve, night had fallen over the city. Beaker climbed the stairs, shivering and brushing off snow. Bunsen held the door for him, saying, "Very good work out there in that snowbank, Beakie! We'll have our antidote to hypothermia perfected in no time." Hurrying to light the fireplace, he added, "Besides, didn't that take your mind off of Scrooge for a bit?"

"Don't get me started on him again," Beaker said, tugging off his frozen cravat. With an even deeper frown than usual, he hung it by the fire to dry, next to the red scarf that he always wore on Christmas Day.

Bunsen lifted up his glasses and studied him. "My dear, we had upwards of thirty doors slammed in our faces just today. Why let Scrooge get so under your skin?"

"Don't you remember what he said? Wishing suffering, even _death_, on his fellow man, and for what? The crime of having no means- of simply _existing_ in a circumstance they didn't ask for- I don't know why we bothered-" Beaker's meeps were getting more high-pitched as he went on, and Bunsen placed a calming hand on his cheek.

"We had to try, Beaker. We have to try everyone. If we can't hope for something better, for people to open their hearts and change their minds just a little, then why are we knocking on all these doors in the first place?"

"But Scrooge? I doubt he has a heart to speak of." The name alone left a nauseating taste in Beaker's mouth, worse than anything he'd ever tested for their apothecary shop. He turned away from Bunsen and busied himself with thawing the buttons on his waistcoat. "If he thinks the population is surplus but his money isn't, what more could we have done? What would it even take to change someone like that? Certainly not two silly do-gooders popping in to receive a tirade about how expendable you are if you're poor."

"That may be so," Bunsen sighed. He had already put on his dressing gown, and he handed Beaker's to him, as if to say it was time to put the day behind him and finally relax. "But it's Christmas Eve. It's not doing anyone any good to dwell on these things now. Tonight is for celebrating what we can."

Bunsen had a stubborn optimism about him that could make him impossible to argue with. Especially when he stood there with that small smile Beaker knew all too well, from countless times of seeing it insist that _nothing_ could possibly go wrong with _this_ experiment. Yet that was what kept Beaker going. Bunsen somehow always found a spark within Beaker, and he wouldn't let it go out.

Still, Beaker made a little noise of protest and wrapped his dressing gown around himself with more force than necessary.

"Know what might lift our spirits?" Bunsen gestured towards the piano in the corner. "You know how I love to hear you play. And a festive little number would be just what this evening calls for. How about it, dearest?"

The piano was the one luxury they'd allowed themselves to purchase for their flat, after scrimping and saving their first year of living together. Beaker glanced over at it, then back at Bunsen, and his eyes glistened in the light of the fire. "Shall I give you your gift now?"

"Beakie, I thought I told you not to get me anything this year. Money's too tight, what with all the repairs we need downstairs. Especially after that incident with the spontaneously combustible coal."

But Beaker was already sitting at the piano and placing his fingers on the keys. "This didn't cost me anything except time and thought," he said, and he'd been happy to spend both on his Bunsen.

Then he played a song unlike anything Bunsen had heard before. It started off slow, bristling with tension under the surface. And without Bunsen being able to pinpoint exactly when, that tension rose and grew into a wonderfully chaotic melody, in a way that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. Just like them. The song _was_ them.

When Beaker was done, Bunsen couldn't think of anything else to do but take him by the hands and lift him from the piano bench. Humming the tune as if he'd heard it a thousand times instead of just once, he danced Beaker around their tiny flat. Together they bumped into furniture, laughing as they argued over who would lead, the floor creaking beneath them and the fireplace creating odd shadows on the wall. The cramped space suddenly felt like a ballroom to Beaker, wide open before him.

Bunsen tilted his head and beamed up at Beaker. "I suppose I should give you my gift now, too."

From behind a stack of books on an overflowing bookshelf, Bunsen took out a small medicine bottle. "I was experimenting in the shop and mixed this up for you. An all-new, never-before-seen remedy for burns. Just the ticket for when one of our demonstrations goes awry. A few drops of this on those lovely hands of yours, and they should heal right up."

He took Beaker's hand in his and kissed it, the way he always would after an injury, in their stockroom where no one could see. "Of course, it hasn't been tested yet. But that means the thrill of discovery will be all yours."

That familiar smile appeared on Bunsen's mouth again, and Beaker leaned down to plant a kiss where it was. "Thank you."

Still holding onto Beaker's hand, Bunsen pulled him into an armchair by the fireplace, where they squeezed in together. Bunsen reached over to take Beaker's red scarf from the mantel, and he draped it around Beaker's neck.

"One final touch to get you into the Christmas spirit, my Beakie. Have I ever told you how very dashing you look in that scarf?"

"Only every year," Beaker laughed, resting his head against Bunsen's. The scarf was warm from the fire, but Bunsen's embrace was even warmer, and that was what Beaker really needed.

It occurred to Beaker that Scrooge may have unintentionally spoken one truth during their visit, when he'd said that falling in love was the only thing in the world sillier than a merry Christmas. Perhaps it was. But that was why it mattered so much. Beaker couldn't imagine having a merry Christmas without all of the love he'd found right here with Bunsen above their shop.


End file.
